Burial Ground

VIII

3:18 p.m.

Tasker wiped the paste of sweat and dust from his brow. He had stripped to his undershirt, which was now thoroughly soaked, and his body odor probably rivaled that of the stiffs around him. They had ripped open every single mummified bundle, exposing the contents and dumping the brittle, desiccated corpses. There were enough feathers to stuff a thousand pillows and enough dry grain to sow a field the size of Texas, but outside of the hundreds of ceramic bowls he had shattered in frustration, there hadn't been a single grave good of any real value.

Where was all the gold?

He bellowed in frustration and turned to find McMasters sitting on a mound of rubble, sipping contentedly from his water bladder. The mere fact that he could be so collected under the circumstances grated on Tasker's nerves.

After what they'd found buried inside the odd sculptures, he had hoped they would discover enough treasure here to allow them to call it good and get the hell out of the jungle. Maybe the blasted pottery would have been worth something, but how many clay bowls would they have needed to sell to justify the kind of effort it would have taken to ship them downriver? Besides, right now, destroying them served as a productive way of venting his fury.

He eyed the closest of the opened bundles they had exhumed from the shelf in the base of the statuary, then quickly looked away.

Images of the three slaughtered bodies they had discovered on the trail flashed across his mind, but he chased them away, only to have a vision of Jones's bloody remains rise to the forefront. The man had been a trained soldier---a Marine for God's sake---and still he hadn't been able to defend himself.

Tasker ground his teeth with an audible screech and forced down the memories. He refused to allow fear to take root. It would only weaken him when now it was imperative to be strong. He allowed rage to supplant any possible feelings of doubt. They had a job to do, and they would execute their plan to perfection even if it killed them. There was nothing left for them back in Lima. There was no way they would be able to explain the deaths of Jones, Reubens, and Telford to a military tribunal. The only option now was to press on, and either they accomplished their goal and lived the rest of their lives in the lap of luxury, or died trying.

"Get up," he said. When McMasters didn't immediately snap to attention, he shouted again so loudly that it reverberated through the cavern and the valley beyond. "Get up!"

McMasters raised his cold stare to meet Tasker's and slowly screwed the cap back into place on his canteen. His eyes never left Tasker's as he returned the water to his rucksack, leisurely rose from where he sat, and walked toward his former commanding officer until their faces were only inches apart.

Tasker wanted nothing more than to grab the man by the throat, press his fingertips into the soft spots over the carotids, and rip out his trachea. He was so furious that his hands shook, forcing him to curl them into fists.

"Yes...sir," McMasters said, and brushed past him toward where they had shed their camouflaged jackets and rain gear.

Tasker's hand found the grip of the pistol in the holster beneath his left arm.

Not yet. He still needed the soldier's help, but once McMasters outlived his usefulness...

He reluctantly released his sidearm and followed McMasters toward the outside world. The sheeting rain filled the mouth of the cavern, the droplets whipping from side to side at the behest of the howling wind. A churning mist had settled into the valley, obscuring the view of everything but the siege of raindrops and the occasional diffuse strobe of lightning. He couldn't have asked for better weather. The storm would mask their presence and wash away their tracks. Their prey wouldn't know they were coming until it was too late. And maybe not even then.

The golden skull was sealed within one of the waterproof plastic sacks and stashed in a small alcove just inside the cave's mouth for rapid retrieval on the return trip should speed be of the essence, which he feared it would.

He donned his jacket and poncho, and smeared a liberal helping of black, grease-based paint over his face. Even the rain wouldn't be able to wash it away.

"You ready to do this?" McMasters asked.

"I was born ready."

Tasker hefted his backpack onto his shoulders and slung his assault rifle across his chest. He glanced back at the mummified face leering out of the torn bundle.

Low-set, recessed orbital sockets.

Skin the consistency of a long-dead carp's scales.

Rows of wicked teeth.

He unslung his rifle and carried it so that he could feel its weight and power in his bare hands.

Bracing himself against the storm, Tasker struck off into the gloom, mentally readying himself for the massacre to come.